Coming Back from Deadman's Curve
by paperbkryter
Summary: Sam and Dean investigate a stretch of road in Indiana which seems to have more fatal accidents than usual. 8 Chapters plus Epilogue
1. Are You Gonna Eat That Pickle?

**Part One: Are You Going to Eat that Pickle?**

Dean Winchester scuffed the toe of one boot into the dusty berm as he leaned against the front fender of his car, idly swatting flies away from his face. Sweat beaded his forehead and slowly soaked into the cotton t-shirt he wore. He wasn't bothering to disguise his irritation at having to be out in broad daylight during the hottest part of a sweltering summer day.

Sam didn't look up from the cantankerous EMF meter he held in one hand as he addressed his long-suffering older brother.

"You're going to turn into a vampire."

"Blasphemy!"

"At the very least," Sam amended, finally switching off the EMF and turning back toward the car. "A mushroom."

Dean grunted. "I don't do summer." He scratched at his neck where a droplet of sweat had broken loose to run down his back. "Damn bugs. Tell me you got somethin', 'cause I don't give up my sweat for bupkus." A lecherous grin crossed his face as he apparently thought about something he'd gladly sweat for, something involving someone of the female persuasion.

"You're a cad."

"What? I didn't say anything!"

"No, but you were thinking it."

Sam ran an arm across his forehead and blinked the sweat out of his eyes. A glance down the road before them revealed shimmering waves of heat rising up off the pavement. To one side of the narrow road was the broad expanse of a cornfield, on the other was a thick tangle of trees and underbrush. In another few hours the sun would shift and the trees would cast shade across the road - but that was in another few hours. They didn't plan on staying that long.

He missed the full effect of Dean's startled, and somewhat worried expression, only glimpsing the tail end of it as Dean hastily made it go away. Sam wasn't sure he found his brother's concern touching, or unnerving, or possibly even irritating.

"Don't worry," he added. "It doesn't take a mind reader to know what you're thinking."

Dean snorted. "Right now I'm thinkin' I should take that as an insult." The grin reappeared as he shifted things away from the dark aspect of Sam's iffy clairvoyance. "You need to confess, smart-ass college boy, you bought those S.A.T. scores didnja?"

"Yeah, from a shady character in a dark alley." Tossing the EMF meter in through the car window, Sam rounded the Impala's long nose to sit on the hood. "I hate to break it to you, but you gave up your sweat for bupkus. I got nuthin'."

"That doesn't always mean anything. It _is_ broad daylight." Dean squinted up into the hazy sun. "And I do mean daylight." He stood up straight and thumped a hand on the hood of the car, which had gone up several degrees in temperature just in the short time the vehicle had been parked there beside the road. "Come on, let's find a hotel, an air conditioner, and a cold beer, not necessarily in that order."

"Or," Sam said, following Dean's example. He slid into the Impala's passenger's seat and pulled the door shut behind him. "It could mean that all these people have died in perfectly ordinary traffic accidents."

"A hotel, an air conditioner, a cold beer and police records," Dean mumbled, turning the key and bringing the Chevy rumbling to life. "Dad had it marked, Sam."

"Dad's hunches aren't always right, Dean. Can you say, Pa Bender?"

"Okay, so that's an exception. It may not have been anything supernatural, but there was something fishy going on there." As he pulled out onto the road, Dean made a face and rubbed his shoulder. "_Rotten_ fish. Bastard left a scar."

"Could have been worse."

"Yeah, I could'a wound up in a half a dozen freezer bags just waitin' to be turned into sausage."

Sam chuckled, but only briefly, finding the scenery much too sobering. Along each side of the road there were signs of old memorials; bunches of sun bleached silk flowers, tattered ribbons, rain sodden stuffed animals and scraps of paper from which words had long faded. Dozens of people over a span of many years had died along this two mile stretch of road in rural Indiana.

He had come across a small "filler" story in an Indianapolis newspaper entitled "The Legend of Deadman's Curve." There were countless "haunted highway" stories circulating around the country, but this one had caught Sam's attention. The reporter had charted the deaths, and both the number and their regularity were startling. He suspected they were dealing with a spirit, perhaps yet another variation on the Lady in White. That John Winchester had included the location on his watch list hadn't been surprising.

"The road doesn't even curve, Sam," Dean said. The Impala sped past the mile marker indicating the far edge of the "dead zone" and Dean pressed down harder on the gas. The big car only had 460 air conditioning and damn if it wasn't an oven inside even with all the windows open. "People around here are either really shitty drivers, or there is something weird going on, and I have to say, I'm standin' in the something weird camp."

"Yeah, well we'll check it out." Sam pulled out his t-shirt, sniffed, and made a face. "Hotel, a/c, beer, police records and a _shower_."

"I heard that."

* * *

Sam had a love-hate relationship with being left alone. On the plus side was the fact that after several months of sharing close quarters with his brother, having a little private time was a blessing. Dean had an irritating habit of filling silences when some silences didn't ask to be filled. If he wasn't blasting the Impala's stereo, he was singing. If he wasn't prodding Sam into a conversation he was prodding Sam into a disagreement. Dean abhorred a vacuum. The only time Sam seemed to be able to escape was when either of them were sleeping and when one considered that his sleep sometimes brought with it disturbing images, even that wasn't much of a respite.

The drawback to being left alone was that Dean _wasn't_ there to fill the silences, leaving Sam's always busy mind seeking other ways to occupy itself. More often than not it strayed to thoughts of Jessica, the all too brief time he'd spent with her leading a normal life, and the burning desire to make someone, some_thing_, pay for fucking it all up. The more he thought about it, the angrier he became.

Ultimately anger became fear. There were nights when Sam drifted off to sleep thanking God he hadn't gone completely off his rocker that day, and praying he wouldn't the next day, or the next. The run in with Max Miller hadn't helped. Max and that whole nasty situation led Sam to appreciate (somewhat) having Dean in his face 24/7. With Dean around it was unlikely Sam would swap pre-law for telekinetic axe wielding homicide as a course of study. Sam just wished he had his brother's confidence.

Right now Sam was alone, but he wasn't thinking - at least not about things that would ultimately lead him into dangerous territory. Instead he was poking around the Internet trying to find references to roadway hauntings and any mention of Chesterville, Indiana's Dead Man's Curve. Or, as Dean had observed, Dead Man's Straightaway. He wasn't finding much. Stories of road and railway hauntings were as thick as fleas on a hound and besides the story Sam had read to begin with, Chesterville was off the map.

He'd been at it for over an hour and was about to throw in the towel. A rattle at the door gave him an even better excuse and he closed the laptop just as Dean burst into the room carrying with him a waft of superheated air, a sheaf of paper, and a Subway bag. The first thing he did was toss the bag to Sam and crank up the air conditioner. It groaned ominously in protest. Sam hoped it didn't conk out in the middle of the night.

Dean tossed the papers onto the table and removed the laptop before sitting down across from Sam and delving into the bag of sandwiches. Sam rose to get something for them to drink. There were two beers chilling in the ice bucket.

"What did you find?" Sam rescued the papers from becoming soaked by the condensation dripping from his brother's beer bottle. He leafed through them with one hand, eyes scanning their contents, as he blindly unwrapped his sandwich with the other.

"Accident reports," Dean mumbled around a mouthful of hoagie. He licked mayonnaise of the end of his finger before pointing for emphasis. "All the way back to the fifties."

Sam peered out from under his bangs and grinned. "What was her name?"

The sour expression Dean affected was comical. That alone made Sam chuckle. What came next made him choke on his sandwich.

"_His_ name was David. Sam, stop laughing right now or I'll kick your ass."

"Oh...man!" Sam put down both the reports and his lunch, leaning back in his chair clutching his stomach. "Why didn't you call me? I needed a laugh..."

"Yeah, and have him get turned off by my boyfriend showing up? Don't be stupid."

Dean's outrage made Sam laugh even harder. The very idea of his womanizing brother flirting around with a guy to get information was patently hysterical, and somewhat of a karmic coup. Served him right.

"Make a date?" Sam squeaked.

"No," Dean said sullenly. "But I let him pinch my ass and call me sweetie."

Gasping for breath, Sam burst into a fresh round of laughter. "Oh. My. God," he choked. "You're killing me."

"I will kill you if you don't stop." There was a pause. "Are you gonna eat that pickle?"

Sam lost the ability to speak. He shook his head, pounding on the edge of the table, and caught sight of the giveaway smile. Dean was playing around with him. It was all bullshit.

But still funny, and Sam needed funny. He gave a few last chuckles and wiped his eyes.

"Seriously," Dean said, reaching over to snag the pickle in question. The pickle wasn't the only thing he was going to be serious about either. "Nine times out of ten roads are haunted by the spirits of the people who have died on, or near them. Check out the first report. Nobody died."

Sam leafed back a few pages to the earliest date recorded on the lists. "Nobody died, but they were already referring to the place as Dead Man's Curve."

"Right. So what does that tell you?"

"Not too much, but it's obvious someone died on the road before they started recording police reports." Skimming the rest of the pages, Sam noted something else. "As cars got faster, the fatalities increased. Logic dictates that prior to this first report there were fewer fatalities, and less likely it becomes that our ghost originally died in a car crash."

"Score one for Mr. Spock."

"So..." Sam chewed slowly, thinking. "We need more information. If anything, just to rule out a simple case of mass crappy driving or some weird scientific anomaly."

Dean scowled. "An anowhat?"

Sam ignored him. "We should see if we can't find reports of sightings - apparitions, mysterious lights or fog. It may not be the road itself, but the land beneath it."

"Indian burial ground, forgotten cemetery, yadda, yadda, yadda." Dean took a long pull from his beer before pointing it at Sam. "You. Geek-boy. Library. Fetch."

His final punctuation was a belch and a grin.

Sam rolled his eyes. Even Henry Higgins himself couldn't reform Dean Winchester.


	2. Amo, Amas, Amat

**PART TWO: Amo, Amas, Amat**

Chesterville, Indiana was the kind of small town one could describe as a "sleepy little hamlet." It hadn't changed much since the first settlers staked claims in the area. It did, however, have a really nice library, possibly due to the fact it also boasted a highly accredited private college. Sam hit the library and it hit him back by producing a wave of homesickness so strong he nearly turned around and bolted back to the hotel.

There were very few students hovering around in the research department given the season, but there were some. A young couple sat side by side at one of the tables, heads bowed together over a book. Sam watched them as he waited for a librarian to come assist him. He watched as the girl leaned over to whisper something in her partner's ear, saw him laugh, and was reminded strongly of Jessica. She had been sweet, and flirty, and fun. She had made him laugh all the time. Just the sight of her could bring a smile to his face.

He was smiling now, thinking about how he had once banned her from going to the library with him during finals week. She was too much of a distraction, especially after he'd told her she was a distraction. Sam tended to keep his mind on track most of the time, but when a girl as beautiful as Jessica teased him with whispered innuendo under the eagle eye of the head librarian, he found himself unable to concentrate. Sex beat out Latin declensions every time.

_Amo, amas, amat..._

I love. You love. He loves.

Loved.

And lost.

"Can I help you?"

"Uh...yeah." Sam cleared his throat, swallowing down the lump that had formed there. "I'm a student over at St. Stephen's and I'm working on a paper about the history of Chesterville..."

The librarian was all too happy to show Sam to the door - the door to the basement.

"We had plans to form a Chesterville Historical Society a while back," she said, pushing open the door and switching on a light. "But it fell through. All the old archives from City Hall and our own files were stored down here in preparation for the project. Haven't been touched since. They're shelved in boxes, last aisle, turn right."

"Great, thanks."

Sam descended the wooden stairs, ducking his head to avoid braining himself on the ceiling once he reached the bottom. The exceptionally low ceiling, hanging not two inches above the top of his head, gave the dark, dusty room a claustrophobic air. It was not a full basement, but rather part of the whole, sectioned off into storage by some administrator from a bygone era. Given the dust and cobwebs that seemed to cling to every surface, it appeared as if nobody at all had been down there for years.

Dusty, moldering books, and boxes were piled up everywhere, even on the floor, in a haphazard mess. To his right was a desk, likewise littered with papers and books and things, and to his left was a narrow aisle flanked by four sets of shelving units crammed with more books and boxes labeled with dates scrawled out in faded black marker. Sam turned down the aisle and when he reached the cold cement wall, he turned right down an aisle. At the very end were at least a dozen boxes labeled "C.Hall" and a few more that said "Hist. Soc."

"Shh..." Sam groaned. "This is going to take forever."

He stood there contemplating a course of action. His first impulse was to call Dean and get him over to the library to help. When his cell failed to pick up a signal through the thick concrete walls of the basement, he paused to give that idea a second thought. Did he really want to listen to Dean bitch for several hours? Besides, with his phone out he'd have to go back upstairs, exit the building, find a signal, and spend several minutes trying to lure his brother out of the relative luxury of their hotel room back out into the heat. Not only that, but Sam, having the car, would have to go back and get him, which would waste even more time.

Casting another glance at the boxes, Sam rested his palm on the wall. If one didn't mind the dust and the mildewy smell - and Sam didn't - it was a nice little haven. Being underground, the air in the basement was cool and comfortable. Upstairs in the main library it was rather warm, the air conditioner being kept low to save money.

Sam let the laptop bag slide from his shoulder. There was no rhyme nor reason to the boxes, so it didn't matter which one he picked first. Choosing one at random, he took it, and himself to the floor, where he sat crosslegged with the box resting upon one knee. It was stuffed full of papers, some of which had been protected in clear plastic sheaths. Others were yellowed and crumbling. With utmost care, Sam began going through them one at a time. Soon he was in a zone.

When Sam Winchester had hauled his ass off to college, he immediately found himself faced with a decision to make. He had to pick a course of study. Truth be told Sam hadn't really thought about it. Up until he actually got there, college had just been an escape, a vacation destination far, far away from his father's twisted life agenda. Stanford was the gateway to a whole new world but Sam had to decide what path he wanted to take before he stepped through.

Ultimately he'd narrowed it down to pre-med or pre-law. For a while he'd toyed with the idea of going into forensic medicine. He'd certainly seen his fair share of dead bodies thanks to a few Hunting trips with his father, and likewise had an exceptionally well tuned eye for detail. Forensics would be a cakewalk.

In the end he'd rejected the idea. Sam had seen too much, and he knew too many things that were outside the realm of ordinary. He knew inevitably there would be a time when a case would come his way with signs of something supernatural being involved. How would he handle it? Sam really didn't want to find out.

A career in forensics would have been too close to the family business for comfort, so Sam turned to another one of his strong points instead: his love of the obscure and the unknown. He never failed to feel a little bit of a thrill when he found references to things generally long forgotten in the annals of history. He loved doing research. Let his father and brother go out into the field and play cowboy, Sam would stay inside hunting down facts, taking notes, and plotting strategy.

Just like an attorney.

Here in this little forgotten corner of the Chesterville library Sam found home. He was in his element. He could put all his own cares and worries aside and focus solely upon his task without interruption. Time ceased to matter. In the dusty basement where the only sounds were the quiet rustling of paper and his own breathing, Sam retreated into his own little world and there he stayed for several hours.

He managed to get through three boxes before he finally took a break. Since there was no real filing system in place for the papers, he'd simply went through and pulled anything that might remotely hold any information regarding Dead Man's Curve; from deeds, to land surveys, to various newspaper articles. He'd study these things more carefully later.

It was when he raised his arms over his head to stretch the knots out of his back that he saw her. Her presence standing at the end of the aisle startled him at first. Sam had too much experience with ghosts not to wonder if he'd stirred up more than dust in the forgotten room. Her smile at his surprised expression, however, put him at ease.

"Sorry," she said. "I didn't mean to startle you."

"Uh, no..." Hastily, Sam rose to his feet. "I...uh...can I help you?"

"I think I'm supposed to be asking you that question."

"Oh. Oh! You work here? You work here." Sam laughed slightly. "Sorry, I just wasn't expecting anyone else down in this section."

"That's okay. Usually there isn't, and I'm just a volunteer."

The young woman smiled again - she had a pleasant smile - and Sam relaxed even more. She was about his age or a couple years older and aside from her smile, there wasn't anything spectacular about her. Her appearance was farm-girl plain from her shoulder-length brown hair to her jeans and unadorned blue t-shirt. A faint spattering of freckles adorned her cheeks and her nose, upon which a pair of wire-rimmed glasses perched. She was the epitome of the girl next door. Even her slightly hippy build could have been considered average.

Jessica had knocked him off his feet and sucker punched him with her beauty.

This girl just smiled at him. The attraction was stealthy, and snuck up on him from behind.

"Sam," he managed, and held out a hand. Almost immediately he withdrew it as a) he noticed it was filthy from going through the old, dusty boxes and b) she was making no effort to return the gesture.

"Ellen," she replied, and moved past him down the aisle. She crouched beside the pile of papers he'd gathered together and leafed through them. After a moment she looked up at him. "You're researching Dead Man's Curve."

"Uh...yeah.

"Why?"

Sam weighed his options, and then finally shrugged and told the truth. "I think it might be haunted."

Ellen stared at him, and Sam felt something pass between them, something only kindred spirits could possibly understand. She didn't look at him as if he were a nut, nor laugh or otherwise discredit his theory as others might have done. Instead her eyes seemed to brighten with a look akin to desire. Her voice was soft, and almost pleading.

"Do you need some help?"

It wasn't that Sam really _needed_ help, but if this girl was offering, he definitely _wanted_ help. Something about her made him want to get to know her better. He was drawn to her in a way that was both unnerving and pleasant, like the fright-tinged thrill one got from riding a roller coaster.

"Sh...sure. Yeah. I could definitely use some help." Grinning, he returned to his seat in the corner, folding his legs beneath him as he sank back down to the floor. "Oh, wait."

Rising once more, Sam retrieved another box from the shelves. He put it down beside Ellen, who had made herself comfortable against the wall. The boxes sat between them, separating them like dusty cardboard chaperones. Ellen smiled shyly and removed the lid of her box. Sam grinned back before turning his attention to his own and the papers it held. Thus with a quickly established and comfortable camaraderie, the two of them went to work.

It wasn't long before small talk crept in to break up the silence. Do you go to school at St. Stephen's? What are you studying? Are you originally from Chesterville, or Indiana in general? Do you have any hobbies?

Sam gave her as much as he was able, and truth be told, maybe a little bit more than he should have. It was refreshing to talk to someone with a love of learning similar to his own and the way she seemed to look right through him made it nearly impossible for him to lie to her. One glance into her large grey eyes and he told her whatever she wanted to know. As it turned out, they had a lot in common.

"I've always been interested in the paranormal." Ellen said quietly, as they sorted through the last box together. "And I've lived here all my life, but I think you'll find more in here about Dead Man's Curve than I could ever tell you."

Drawing his knees up to his chest, Sam rested his arms across them. Ellen carefully put the lid back on the box and tidied up the papers they'd gathered that Sam wanted to review a second time.

"What can you tell me?" he asked quietly.

"Only things I've heard. Nobody likes to talk about it, but it's so obvious there is something wrong out there. People have seen things, heard things..."

"Like what?"

Ellen sighed and tucked her hair behind her ears. "Lights, voices." Raising her head, she met Sam's gaze. "Maybe you and your brother should go out there tonight."

Before Sam could ask, "Why?" he heard the buzz of an intercom and a muffled voice speaking from the vicinity of the stairs. Sam cursed softly. The library was closing, and he still had things to do. He stood, and contemplated tucking the books and papers they'd sorted into his bag. Before he could act Ellen interrupted his thoughts of thievery.

"You know, I'll be here a few minutes longer, Sam. I can photocopy these for you - even take down some notes."

Sam stopped in the act of swinging the laptop up over his shoulder. "Could you? That would be great but..."

Ellen stood, the papers clutched to her chest. "But what?"

"I thought that maybe we could...you know...go out for coffee or..." Sam finished lamely. "Something?"

"You're sweet," she said softly. There was no mistaking the hint of disappointment in her voice. "But I'll have to take a raincheck."

"Oh," Sam nodded. "Yeah. Sure."

"And besides, aren't you going out to the Curve tonight?"

Sam knit his brow. "I don't..."

Another announcement came wafting down the stairs, cutting him off. Ellen nodded toward the exit.

"You'd better go."


	3. Follow the Bouncing Ball

**PART THREE: Follow the Bouncing Ball **

The sharp heat of the day had diminished noticeably, retreating with the sunlight, but it had left behind the humidity and not much relief - even at midnight. Sticky and oppressive, the air wasn't even stirred by the slightest breeze. It lay thick and heavy around them. Sam felt like he was suffocating beneath a shroud of darkness. Being in the car didn't help.

Dean sat beside him in the driver's seat, head tilted back, mouth slightly ajar, eyes wide open and staring at the Impala's roof. Sweat trickled down his forehead. "I'm dying."

Sam grinned. "No you're not."

"Melting." Dean moaned and tipped his chin back down. "Why am I here again? I could be lounging in front of an air conditioner watching pay per view."

"I don't know." Sam peered anxiously out through the Impala's broad windshield. "Ellen said we should check it out tonight." He shook his head. "I'm telling you, Dean, there was something about that girl. We just...connected. It was weird."

"You're weird, she's weird, you should get married and have weirdlings." Dean chuckled at his own joke. Sam punched him in the shoulder. "Ow!"

"I'm serious, and I think she may have had an experience out here or something. She didn't like to talk about it."

"Or she lost someone. Given the number of fatalities on this stretch of roadway odds are a lot of people probably know one or more of the victims. Didn't you say she's a local?"

"Yeah, and she did lose someone. She told me her fiance died out here, but she didn't elaborate and I didn't ask." Shifting his weight in his seat, Sam reached for the video camera sitting on the dashboard. He checked the tape and the batteries for the tenth time. "Why was she was so insistent that we come out here tonight, though?"

"You shoulda asked her that, not me." Turning, Dean reached around into the back seat fumbling for the cooler he'd stashed there. From within he produced two cold bottles of water. "Here."

Sam opened his water and drank. Dean pressed his bottle to his forehead for a minute or two before following suit.

"Maybe she's psychic," Sam suggested softly. "That would explain a lot."

"Oh jeez."

"What?"

"Nothing, I just...Sammy I think you're reading too much into things. You just met the girl."

Angrily, Sam replied quickly. "What, it's okay for _you _to pick up skanky barflies and have sex with them, but I can't even establish a friendship with a nice girl in a library?"

"Oh, listen to you preach..."

"I'm just sick of the double standard, Dean!"

"That's bullshit, Sam." Dean inhaled deeply, obviously searching for the right way to say what he wanted to say. "Look, I'm all for you hooking up. I think it would be good for you, okay? But I just can't help being suspicious of some random geek-girl you meet in a library basement. She sounds too nice. Remember that chick from Iowa I was seein' for a while?"

Sam wrestled his anger back down. "Yeah, Mary something," he muttered.

"Yeah. She told me everything I ever wanted to hear, tried to be everything she thought I wanted her to be, perfect in every way, and she was nuttier than a fruitcake." There was a pause as Dean took another long pull from his water bottle. "It's too hot to fight," he added abruptly.

In that, they were in agreement.

"I don't think Ellen is another Mary," Sam said after a long silence. "I don't know why, but I felt..."

He stopped as something caught his eye.

A milky white light, the size and shape of a softball, drifted past the windshield. It dipped a little as if acknowledging their presence, before floating across the road and into the forest, propelled by something other than the nonexistent breeze. Sam stared after it.

"Orb." Dean said casually.

Sam snorted. "Thank you Helen Hunt, I can see that."

The two of them scrambled out of the car, relieved to finally have something to do other than sit around sweating. Dean swung the EMF into action, turning slowly around in a circle as more orbs manifested themselves. They floated up from the cornfield, swirling in and out among the stalks before coming up onto the road. Sam focused the camera on Dean who looked as if he were standing amidst dozens of giant soap bubbles.

"Have you ever thought," Sam said quietly, turning to film an orb that was hovering around just beside him. "What would happen if we went public with proof of the existence of ghosts? I mean solid, indisputable, scientific proof."

"Oh, I know what would happen."

"Yeah, what?"

Dean looked up from the EMF meter with a broad grin. "We could start charging people for this."

Shaking his head, Sam continued filming. He paused once to look over his brother's shoulder at the EMF meter. "It's spiking like crazy."

"I've never seen anything like it," Dean admitted. "Never so many in one place. Look, they're comin' from both sides."

Sam switched off the camera and looked toward the woods. Sure enough, there were ghostly white balls of light among the trees and bushes too. As he watched they rolled out toward the road and across, joining the others to dance their eerie dance across the pavement. One drifted close, very close. Sam could not resist the temptation and reached out a hand to touch it.

It slid through his fingers, leaving behind a muscle cramping cold so intense it felt as if he'd stuck his hand in a bucket of ice water. It left behind something else, too - quick flashes of memory, echoes of what the ghostly energy had once been. These orbs of light had once been people, all the people who had died on Dead Man's Curve.

He touched another, this time following the light with his hand, leaving his fingers within it for a bit longer. Memories of a small child, a laughing woman, and a car spinning out of control filled his mind with images. He felt a quick burst of terror as he realized he was going to die...

With a gasp he jerked his hand away from the light.

Sam could barely move his fingers. They tingled with pain. He hastily tucked his hand beneath his arm to warm it, wincing against a sudden headache. Damnit. Why couldn't Dean be the fucking psychic?

"Dean."

"Yeah?" Dean looked up at him and frowned. "Hey, you okay? Your face is freakin' white."

"I'm fine. I just had a thought."

The frown turned into a wry smile. "Another one? Didn't I warn you about that..."

Sam glared, not feeling particularly jovial at the moment. Dean shut up and let him talk.

"What if all of these spirits are responsible for the accidents? Are we going to have to hunt down every one and put the torch to them in order to stop it?"

Fewer and fewer orbs were now entering the highway, and the ones that had been there before were gradually fading away into the darkness. Dean watched them for a long moment before turning back to his brother with a scowl.

"Sam," he growled.

"What?"

"Stop thinking."


	4. Premature Speculation

**PART FOUR: Premature Speculation**

It occurred to Sam that he and Ellen hadn't set up a time to meet, and wondered just how they were going to get together at the right time and place. He needn't have worried, for when he entered the basement room at noon the next day she was there waiting for him.

As soon as he saw her, Sam felt the same "pull" he'd felt the day before. Her eyes held his and for the longest time all he found himself able to do was stare at her. With a coy expression she smiled faintly. That broke the spell. Was it a spell, for real? What if she were some sort of witch, some sort of succubus or...

Sam wasn't sure he cared.

"Hi," he said.

"Hi." Ellen held out a folder and gestured for him to sit down at the desk. He did so, and she perched herself on one corner so they could study the contents of the folder together. Sam leafed through the first few pages in rapt adoration of her work.

"This is great!"

Ellen had not only photocopied the documents they'd pulled, but she'd gone through and highlighted pertinent information. To top it all off she had at least a page and a half of her own notes and findings written on sheets of yellow legal paper.

He looked up at her. "You didn't have to do all this."

She smiled. "It was no problem. I enjoyed having a project." With a note of excitement in her voice, she pointed out some things to him. "I took a closer look at the chart the Herald reporter made up. The accidents have increased over the years, and the time between them has gotten shorter."

"More traffic," Sam nodded. "Faster cars..."

"I really don't think speed has anything to do with it, Sam. It's true that cars have gotten faster over the years, but they've also gotten safer with the introduction of seat belts, airbags and special crumple zones. That should make it all come out in the wash. Besides, you've seen that road. There isn't a curve in it for miles. Why are so many people having accidents?"

"What's the prevailing theory? The authorities have got to have noticed this pattern."

"Wind," she said bluntly. "They think it's the wind."

Sam looked at her incredulously. "Wind?"

Ellen nodded. "Freak gusts of wind that come up off that cornfield. They take people unaware, cause them to lose control if they happen to be speeding. On a long, straight road, at night, in the middle of nowhere, a lot of people are speeding." She paused, and gave Sam another long, earnest stare. "Sam, you told me you've investigated this kind of thing before. You know how hard it is to get people to believe. Rather than choose a supernatural explanation, they're going to come up with all sorts of more mundane theories."

He had to admit she was right. Leaning his elbows on the desk, he posed another question. "What do you think it is?"

After a moment, Ellen looked away from him, folding her hands in her lap as she bowed her head and shrugged. "I don't know."

"I think you have your own theory. Why else would you have sent us out there last night?"

She cast an eye in his direction. "What did you see?" she whispered.

"Orbs. Dozens upon dozens of orbs."

"Spirits of the dead."

Something in the way she said it, in a low, whispering voice, sent a shiver up Sam's spine. "Yes," he replied softly. "If they're behind the accidents, we need to know how and why."

Ellen seemed to recover from whatever melancholy had gripped her. Her animation returned as she reached out to tap the folder. "I know why, or at least I think I know why, and who."

"Who?"

"Who. John Haddox, one of the founding fathers of Chesterville. He and his family were the biggest landowners around here up until the early twentieth century. He's the original dead man of Dead Man's Curve."

Sam delved back into the folder and began reading. Ellen had done a remarkable job of researching and organizing her information, all in less than twenty-four hours. It was almost too remarkable. He had to shelve his suspicions. The important thing was to solve the mystery and prevent further deaths.

"John Haddox," he murmured.

Haddox had been a landowner of some reknown, but he had also been a farmer who was not above getting his hands dirty working his own farm. In 1896 he was killed in a farming accident while working alone in a field near the current location of the road. It had not been a quick death, but slow and agonizing as he was not found for nearly a day later. By then he had died of blood loss, shock and exposure.

Things were quiet for a while, until Haddox's descendents decided to start selling off parcels of land - something the senior Haddox had sworn he would never do. Part of the land was used to build what was now known as the Chesterville/Highcliffe road. Until that point in time Chesterville and Highcliffe had been rival towns, with plenty of bad blood between their founders. The establishment of connecting road across his former farm had apparently not gone over well with John Haddox's spirit. The first reported death was that of Gregory Haddox, the grandson who had divided up the land and sold it. They had continued for nearly one hundred years. Countless deaths, countless spirits.

"It has to stop, Ellen."

She nodded, and with the tip of one finger, slid a single piece of paper from the center of the folder. On it was the photocopy of John Haddox's obituary.

"I don't know why you're really here, Sam," she said softly. "And I'm not going to ask you to tell me. But..."

Sam looked up at her when she failed to continue. "But what?" he prompted.

Standing, Ellen got up and turned away from him, her shoulders tense and her arms wrapped around herself as if she were cold. After a moment's hesitation, Sam got up and followed her. He stood behind her wanting very much to put a hand on her shoulder but not feeling he had any right to do so without permission. The suspicion he'd held regarding her potential psychic abilities grew as she seemed to sense his presence behind her. She turned around to face him and he saw that there were tears in her eyes.

"You can make it stop, Sam. I knew the moment I saw you. Please," she breathed. "Make it stop."

Sam would be hard pressed to explain to anyone what happened next. One moment he was simply reaching out to wipe a tear from her cheek, and in the very next breath they were lip locked. His hands cupped her face as he kissed her deeply. He'd never kissed anyone but Jessica like that before and he had never wanted anyone but Jessica in the same way he now wanted Ellen. It was as if he were suddenly completely out of control of his own desires.

She was more than willing to be led too. Sam guided her back into the secluded corner where they'd first met, pausing several times to kiss her. There was no resistance. Her hands were all over him, her mouth sought his hungrily, tell tale signs of a starvation similar to his own. Neither one of them were thinking - not when he pressed her hard against the cool concrete wall, not when her jeans were unbuttoned and her panties shed.

He took her standing up, unprotected and completely uninhibited, holding her firmly against the wall as she wrapped her legs around his hips and dug her nails into his shoulders. She gasped, moaning as he entered her. He couldn't hold back, couldn't think of her pleasure at all. It had been far too long for him and too much had happened. Desire joined up loneliness, fear and frustration to make him sloppy and quick.

Desperation sex. Sam was embarrassed.

"Sorry, sorry...God I'm so..."

"It's okay." Her hands caressed him as he buried his face in her shoulder. She kissed his hair. His hands slipped from her thighs and she lowered her legs to the floor. "Really, it's okay."

Sam stood back, nervously setting himself to rights as she redressed herself. His fingers fumbled at his belt buckle. Ellen paused to help him and her sympathetic chuckle broke their uncomfortable silence. She favored him with her gentle smile. Her glasses were slightly askew and she took a moment to straighten them. Sam caressed her cheek with the back of his hand.

"I think I should go," he said softly.

Ellen agreed. "You probably should. It's getting late."

Together they walked back up the aisle, returning to the reading desk. Ellen closed the file folder and picked it up, pressing it into Sam's hands.

"Good luck," she said.

"Ellen..."

He never finished. He wasn't sure there was anything left to say.


	5. Bugs on a Windshield

**PART FIVE: Bugs on a Windshield**

John Haddox was buried in a private family cemetery somewhere near the original Haddox homestead. The exact location of the original Haddox homestead was not recorded anywhere in any of the documents Sam had access to, nor did anyone in town seem to know anything about its location. Sam worried that he would have to go back to the library basement and search the old archives once again - something he particularly did not want to do following his sexual encounter with Ellen. He was also afraid of failure. If torching John Haddox's remains didn't stop the curse of Deadman's Curve, it was very possible they would have to do the same to the bodies of every person who had ever died there.

While Sam fretted about the end of their task, Dean's concerns were more focused on the beginning. He was quick to voice his fear that they would have to spend countless man hours hiking all over the county in the sweltering heat looking for a needle in a haystack. This fear was well founded because that was exactly what they ended up doing.

Dean also had this "thing" about ticks and mosquitos, which he made sure Sam was aware of as they pushed their way through the overgrown yard of an old house. The house had looked like it might hold potential. Upon closer inspection, however, it was revealed to be the remains of recent tornado victim and much too modern. Still, they made a thorough search of the area before declaring it a bust.

Sam had carefully mapped out the parcels of land once owned by the Haddox family prior to Gregory's dispersement. Over all he'd drawn a grid of squares each equal to five acres of land. He didn't reveal to Dean that there were over two hundred and fifty squares to be searched. After they scoped out the tornado wrecked house and the lot upon which it sat, he marked off one square. It had taken them nearly an hour to make their investigation.

"There has to be an easier way to do this," Dean panted, pouring the remains of a bottled water down over his head. "There was nothing in the records? Nothing at all?"

Sam leaned back against the Impala's front fender, inhaling deeply after a long draw from his own water bottle. "We went through everything, Dean. There were no references at all to where the house used to be."

"Maybe you missed something."

"I told you already, we didn't miss anything!"

Dean stared at him in silence for a good long minute. "I'm sensing hostility." he said finally.

"I'm tired of you asking about it."

Crossing around the Impala's long hood toward the driver's door, Dean shrugged nonchalantly. "Personally, I don't think you even bothered to look."

Sam turned and shot him a nasty look. "Why would you say that?"

"Because," Dean stopped and leaned his elbows on the car's roof, regarding his brother with a cool expression. "You've been acting weird all evening, ever since you came back from the library. I'm thinkin' something went awry with Ms. Perfect."

Sam's response was a sullen silence, and he should have known better because Dean immediately took it as confirmation.

"What happened?"

"Nothing."

"That's crap. Come on, Sammy, what happened?"

Annoyed, Sam pulled open the car door and got inside. "Let's go. We've got a lot more ground to cover."

"Which we might not have to do," Dean said, ducking in behind the wheel. "If you went back to the library records and found the house."

"I searched the records and I found nothing regarding the house. If you don't fucking believe me you can go to the library your damn self, Dean! I'm not going back there!"

Sam's angry outburst rolled off Dean's back like water off a duck. He smiled and shook his head as he started the car, shooting Sam a wry look as he drove the big Chevy carefully around the ruts and pot holes in the old farm road they'd been following.

"I figure one of two things happened. One - she pulled a Glenn Close. Or two - you had sex with her."

"You're an asshole," Sam growled.

"Uh-huh. It was sex." Dean laughed. "Sammy you sly devil..."

"Shut up, Dean. Whatever went on between me and Ellen has nothing to do with this. Between the two of us we went over everything with a fine toothed comb. If there ever was a record of the Haddox family's homestead, it's gone now. We're just going to have to do this the hard way, all right, so get over it."

"Was it good?"

Sam wanted to strangle him. Dean might not be psychic, but he could be freakishly acute at times. He was also as tenacious as a pit bull. Sam sensed him waiting for a response. It took a while, but Sam finally answered.

"No," he admitted. "I got in a hurry." He wasn't going to confess to that without an excuse, so following the truth, he added a lie. "I was afraid we were going to get caught."

In the next instant Sam had to reach out a hand to keep himself from slamming into the dashboard as Dean hit the brakes and brought the Impala to a screeching halt. The two of them looked at each other.

"Sam," Dean said incredulously. "You didn't!"

"Didn't what?"

"You...didn't...Sam! In the public library?"

"Phfft. Jess and I did it all the time at Stanford."

"Dude!"

"What?"

"You're joking!"

"No, Dean," Sam said, his amusement at Dean's reaction beginning to grow. "I'm not joking. Haven't you ever had sex in public?"

Dean appeared scandalized at first, but it quickly turned into what Sam interpreted as annoyance - annoyance at himself for being out-done by baby brother. "No," he said sheepishly. "We usually go back to her place."

Sam twisted the knife a little. "Pity," he said, and made sure to put a patronizing spin upon his tone.

"Now who's an asshole," Dean growled, putting the car back in motion. "And a pervert." The look on his face indicated his intent to engage in covert public sex at the very next opportunity. He ignored Sam's chuckle, and much to Sam's relief, finally dropped the subject.

They pulled back onto the paved road. Sam consulted his map.

"Left," he said. "We'll start to the south and work our way back toward town. The road pretty much bisects the original parcel so we can use it as a center point and sweep back and forth from east to west."

"This is gonna to take forever."

"Maybe we'll get lucky."

"Hope so," Dean muttered. "But somethin' tells me we have a better chance of winning the Powerball lottery." He reached up to the dash to where he'd thrown a can of _Deep Woods Off_. After shaking its contents he threw it back up into the window. "We need more bug spray."

Sam laughed. "You're such a wuss."

"Yeah, call me that when you come down with malaria."

"Malaria? Dean, you get malaria in tropical climates, and the last time I checked, Indiana is far north of the equator."

"Shut up, smart ass," And Sam heard him add, "Nasty blood-sucking bastards," under his breath.

Distracted by his parasitic insect angst, Dean apparently didn't see the car coming. Or perhaps, because it was dark and the driver was speeding, he misjudged its distance. Regardless, the next thing Sam knew he was being thrown forward yet again as Dean hit the brakes hard to avoid what could have been a nasty accident.

The Chevy skidded on the dirt farm road, her front wheels stopping just barely over the dividing line between it and the paved road before her. Sam flinched at the blaring wail of a horn and was startled to see the sleek, aerodynamic shape of a more modern vehicle streak by just inches from the Impala's front bumper. Beside him Dean cursed.

"Idiot." As if Dean himself didn't break one hundred and one traffic laws and then some on a daily basis.

Sam watched the tail lights of the other vehicle grow smaller in the distance. They disappeared around a curve and a sense of dread filled him.

"Oh my God. Dean!"

"What?"

"Go after him!"

"What?"

"He's heading straight for Chesterville." Sam waved impatiently in the direction of the road as Dean stopped to stare at him. "Go, go! We've got to stop him before he hits the Curve!"

"Okay, okay. I'm going!"

The Impala's rear tires spun, churning up dirt and gravel as Dean hit the gas and the car surged out onto the road. For one heart-stopping moment she fishtailed before he regained control, but within seconds Dean had righted her and they were roaring down the highway. They gained speed quickly. It was not long before Sam could once again see a trio of red taillights ahead. The lights vanished as the car slipped down a rather steep incline, but reappeared even closer when it came up the hill on the other side. Sam felt the dizzying sensation of momentary weightlessness as the Impala dropped down the hill in pursuit.

Another hill, and a curve, and they began closing in on the other driver. They were also closing in on the long, flat straightaway the locals knew as Dead Man's Curve. Sam resisted the temptation to laugh once again at the incongruous appellation. If they didn't stop, or at least slow down the driver in front of them, the results would be no laughing matter.

"Dean, we've got to pass him," Sam urged. "Or at least get up beside him."

"I know, I know!"

"Dean..."

"Shut up, Sam! I'm going as fast as I can!"

They were shouting to be heard. All four windows were rolled down, and rushing wind roared through the interior of the car, making conversation difficult. Sam felt the humidity in the air and he caught the unmistakable scent of impending rain. A flash of lightning against the dark backdrop of the horizon confirmed that a major thunderstorm was on its way. He heard a rumble of thunder harmonize with the throaty growl of the Chevy's engine. Great. Not only was the road cursed, it would soon be rain-slicked and doubly dangerous.

As they rounded the last curve before the road began running straight and flat, they caught up with the other car. It was a Toyota with out-of-state tags and a V-6 engine no match for the old muscle car's big V-8. Dean swung out from behind the Toyota into the wrong lane and was soon pacing it. The driver turned to look out at them with a horrified look on his face and Sam gestured for him to roll down his window.

"Hey! Stop! We just want to talk to you," he bellowed. "Stop!"

Dean echoed him from the driver's seat, alternating his attention back and forth from the road to the other car as he shouted. "Hey buddy, come on! You've got to listen to us!"

Like evenly matched drag racers, the two cars flew down the road at an ever increasing speed. The driver of the Toyota was scared, Sam could see it in his face. Trouble was, he was afraid of _them_, and not what might await him on the cursed length of highway ahead. Sam did everything he could to get the man to listen but he quickly realized he was fighting a loosing battle.

After one last shout and a series of frantic hand gestures, Sam was ready to throw in the towel and just let the fool kill himself. He glared out the window at him. "Slow down you moron!"

It was then that he saw the man's expression change. His head snapped up and away from Sam's direction, his eyes widened, and suddenly the Toyota dropped back out of the race as he hit the brakes. It was still moving, but had slowed down so radically the speeding Chevy ripped past it as if it were standing perfectly still.

"Oh, shhhhhit!" Dean's voice held an unmistakable note of panic. "SAM!"

Sam whipped his head around to look out the windshield.

There, just a few yards in front of them, was a swirling mass of round white lights - orbs - dancing and weaving back and forth over the roadway from one side to the other, just as they had done the night before. That whole section of road was lit up with an eerie light both beautiful and frightening. Sam noticed something else, too.

It hadn't been apparent from the roadside, nor standing among them, but from a little way down the road the formation the orbs had taken strongly resembled a barrier.

In modern America, crossing through a funeral procession was illegal in most states. Some people believed this was because to do so would create a traffic problem. Others simply took it as something one avoided doing out of respect for the dead. In truth the law had its origins in legend. In many cultures it was considered bad luck to cross a funeral procession. One did not interrupt the dead as they made their journey to the afterlife, to do so would bring about horrible consequences.

Sam suddenly knew without a doubt, if they broke through the barrier of spirit orbs they would be killed.

"STOP! Dean! Stop the car!"

He braced himself as Dean hit the brakes. The Impala started to skid, tires scraping across the pavement with a squeal and the stink of burning rubber. Her weight and her momentum continued to carry her forward, closer and closer to the orbs hovering above the roadway. Dean struggled with the wheel, trying to keep the car under control and away from the barrier of light. At the last minute he jerked the wheel and the Impala's nose swung away from the orbs as she presented her flank to them.

For a second Sam thought they were safe. He felt the car slow radically when Dean turned her sideways and expected them to come to a tidy stop just short of the spirit barrier. The Chevy's momentum, however, carried her just a bit too far, and when Dean turned her, her back end whipped around to punch a hole through the orbs.

Instantly the car began spinning like a dog chasing its tail. Sam squinted into the light swirling around them and what he saw made him gasp.

He could see them. They were no longer manifesting as spheres of light, but as ghostly human figures who surrounded the car with outstretched hands. There were dozens of them and they all cried out pleadingly to Sam for help. Frightened faces flashed by each window as the car spun wildly out of control down the road. Ethereal hands pushed against the vehicle. Some reached in through the open windows to pluck at Sam's clothing.

_Help us...free us..._

It all happened in a split second. He remembered glancing over toward Dean, who had his jaw set and his hands clenched around the steering wheel. If Dean could see what surrounded them, he didn't give any indication of it and Sam had no time to ask. The dizzying spin in which they'd been caught flung the Chevy sideways off the road and nose first into a drainage ditch. There ensued an abrupt cessation of movement...

Of the car, anyway. Her occupants were not as lucky.

Sam's body was slammed into the dashboard. There was a horrible cracking sound when his forehead became intimate friends with the Impala's windshield. A flash of light exploded before his eyes, almost instantly fading, as he was bitch slapped into complete and utter darkness.


	6. Smelling of Earth and Worn by Weather

**PART SIX: Smelling of Earth and Worn by Weather**

He'd lost count how many times he'd been knocked out over the years. You never got used to it and coming back to consciousness after getting your head bashed in always hurt like hell.

Sam groaned. Leather creaked as he slowly sat up from where he had fallen back against his seat. Automatically he raised a hand to touch what hurt - his throbbing head - and hissed in pain as his fingers brushed a nasty cut across the front of his scalp. His hair and forehead were sticky with blood.

"Dean," he croaked. "You okay?"

There was no answer. With great care, Sam turned his head.

"Dean?"

His brother sat slumped sideways in the driver's seat, presenting Sam with a three quarters view of a face masked in dark, glistening blood. There was so much of it Sam couldn't tell where it was coming from, nor could he tell if Dean were alive or dead. The Impala's engine had stalled and the dashboard lights had gone out along with the headlights.

Sam fumbled for the door handle. It was difficult to get the door open, for although the car had gone nose first into the ditch, she was also listing hard to port. Gravity pushed the door down hard in that direction. Sam grunted as he finally managed to shove it open wide enough for him to exit the car.

The door slammed shut just as he cleared it, and just as soon as he put his weight down on his feet, he cried out and fell to his hands and knees. For one long moment he thought he would black out again from the pain. His stomach lurched, his vision swam, and every beat of his heart sent a bolt of agony stabbing through his head. He had to wait until everything stopped spinning before he could try again.

He diagnosed a sprained ankle. It held his weight, but not without pain, and he was able to slowly make his way around to the driver's side of the car. Reaching in the window he touched his brother's throat. The pulse there was weak and thready. Sam saw why immediately.

In addition to the horribly bloody cut above his right eye, which had no doubt occurred when Dean's head left the spiderweb of cracks in the windshield, Dean had broken his arm. It was a compound fracture wherein a sharp protrusion of bone jutted up from the underside of his left arm between wrist and elbow. It bled freely - too freely.

With a curse, Sam fumbled at his belt buckle with one hand, and dug into his pocket for his cell phone with the other. He dialed 911 as he wrapped his belt around Dean's arm just below the elbow and pulled it tight. When the operator answered his call he could barely force his voice to obey.

"There's been an accident," he gasped. "Chesterville...Chesterville-Highcliffe road..."

_"The Curve?"_

"Yeah, my brother..."

She interrupted him because she didn't need to know anymore. His location was enough. Sam was sure it was all too familiar to her.

_"I'm sending a squad."_

Sam wanted to say more, tell her what had happened, what injuries they had suffered, but his phone dropped the call in a burst of static and an ungodly squeal. He jerked it away from his ear with a mumbled curse.

Although he was reluctant to leave Dean, Sam wanted to make sure the ambulance saw them right away when it came. With a great deal of effort he climbed out of the drainage ditch toward the road. At the top he staggered to his feet and stood there panting.

What he saw brought him up short.

_They_ were still there and he could still see them.

The orbs were gone, faded away into the night, but not so the spirits that inhabited them. Dozens of "people" milled about on the roadway. Some were from bygone eras, judging by the clothes they wore. Others seemed to be from more modern times. All of them wore similar expressions on their faces, expressions of sadness, fear, and confusion.

A chill went down Sam's spine when one of them looked in his direction and stopped in its tracks. The spirit met his gaze. Sam wondered if he shouldn't make some sort of an attempt to gain access to the Impala's trunk and the ghost repelling weapons inside. A sudden roar of thunder, coupled with a bright flash of lightning made him flinch violently, and a familiar face, illuminated by the lightning strike, caught his attention.

"Ellen?"

She stood behind the milling spirits at the edge of the woods. The wind had come in with the advancing storm and it caught her hair, raising it to swirl about her face. Lightning flashed and she turned away into the trees. Above the sound of another rumble of thunder Sam heard her call his name.

"Ellen wait!"

He lurched into motion, limping badly on his sprained ankle. Almost immediately he was surrounded by the ghosts, who reached out to lay their hands on him as if to reassure themselves he was really there. Like the orbs, their touch was bitterly cold and each time one placed a hand upon him, Sam jerked away in pain. They swarmed him, plucking at his hair, his clothing, his hands with their, spidery fingers. Their hands brushed his cheeks, leaving behind a sensation similar to what he might have felt if he'd been burned. His body was jostled this way and that as all of them sought to touch him.

And all the while their lips did not move, but he heard their whispered voices.

_'Help us, free us. Help us. Please help us.'_

"Let me go!"

Sam struggled forward, drawing the spirits along with him. He felt suffocated - gasped for breath as if he were drowning. He stumbled off the pavement onto the berm and nearly fell. Fear surged through him. If he fell, he thought, they would kill him.

_"Help us, please!"_

They did not follow him into the woods, but their voices did, rising into a chorus of pain and misery inside his head. Sam was deafened by it, and made blind by the darkness of the trees surrounding him. No more did cold, ghostly hands grab at him, instead he was assaulted by tangled vines and tree branches. They tore scratches in the bare skin of his arms, rent holes in his clothing, slashed at his face.

"Ellen!"

Only the skies replied. The storm was quickening.

Sam stopped abruptly. Confused and disoriented he turned around in a circle. The trees had closed in around him. He could no longer recall the way back to the road.

And Dean.

Had the squad come? Sam hadn't heard any sirens.

"Ellen! Ellen where are you?"

"I'm here, Sam."

"Where?" he shouted. "I can't...I can't see anything!"

"Here, hurry!"

He surged ahead into the underbrush, raising his arms to protect his face from low hanging branches. In some places the plant life was so overgrown he was forced to detour around it. He tripped and fell. Regaining his feet took a monumental effort and by the time he had dragged himself up out of the clinging claws of the undergrowth, rain had begun to fall.

Dirt became mud. The ground beneath Sam's feet became wet and slippery. What little he had been able to see in the dark now became completely obscured by sheets of pouring rain. He wanted desperately to turn around and go back. Several times he glanced over his shoulder, blinking and sputtering through the water coursing down his face. All he could see behind him was a tangled mass of dark shadows. There was no path, nothing at all to mark his own recent passage.

_My kingdom for a machete._

"Sam!"

He turned quickly toward the sound of Ellen's voice. It was muffled by the rain. Thunder drowned out his reply. She spoke again. He stumbled blindly in what he thought was the right direction.

Suddenly he was falling. The forest had spat him out into a clearing. He fell heavily onto grass, mown grass, and in his relief he dug his fingers deep into the thick, green carpet beneath him. All he wanted to do then was lay there and never move again. His limbs felt heavy and useless. He could not make himself get up.

"Sam, look at me. I need you to look at me."

"Can't..."

"Sam!"

The fear in her voice roused him. Something was wrong. He had to help her.

Sam raised his head. Raindrops rolled down his cheeks like tears. He blinked them away so that he could see, and what he did see was _not_ Ellen - at least not at first.

The well tended lawn upon which he'd fallen was not someone's front yard, or a grassy patch beside the road as he'd first thought. It belonged to a cemetery and Sam lay sprawled face down across a grave. He shuddered. Ellen said his name, drawing his attention away from the grave toward her instead.

She stood behind the headstone, rain-soaked from her head to her feet. Her dark, sodden clothing clung to her like a second skin, accentuating the shape of her body, making her look as if she were no more than a shadow. Sam could not see her eyes behind the fogged up lenses of her glasses, nor could he distinguish her tears from the rain, but he knew she was crying.

"Is this it, Sam? Is this what you need to end it? Please say it is!"

Sam refocused, turning his gaze to the name carved into weatherworn headstone.

**JOHN R. HADDOX**

"Yes," he whispered. "Yes."

He let his head fall. The grass was soft against his cheek, and the music of the rain was sweet and soothing. It would be okay if he rested, he thought, just for a little bit. He had called the squad for Dean. Everything was going to be okay. It was okay to rest.

The last thing Sam remembered before he let himself drift away, was the touch of a gentle hand upon his face and a woman's whispering voice.

_"Thank you."_


	7. The Wrong Day to Stop Sniffing Glue

**PART SEVEN: The Wrong Day to Stop Sniffing Glue**

Dean greeted him in the usual fashion.

"You look like crap."

Sam looked up from the newspaper he was reading and grinned - painfully. He supposed he did look like crap considering the cuts and scratches decorating his face. Of course Dean didn't look much better with his left eyebrow bristling with stitches and the underlying eye swollen up in a nasty shade of purple. It was the first time they'd seen each other since the accident and it was hard not to pick up on the mutual relief flooding the room.

"New fashion statement?" Sam asked, nodding toward the cast on his brother's arm. It rested in a sling around his neck, but it was impossible not to miss the fact that the outer wrapping of fiberglass was a screamingly loud shade of pink.

Dean made a face as he settled himself in a chair beside the bed. "It's summertime. They've had a flood of rug-rats with broken arms come through the E.R." He raised his arm. "This was the only color they had left."

"It suits you, brings out the red in your bloodshot eyes."

"Shut up or I'll have them revoke your walking papers."

"Oh thank God," Sam breathed.

He'd been told, upon coming to in the E.R. that both he and Dean would be held a couple of days for observation. Both of them had cracked their heads pretty good on the Impala's windshield and Sam had been found soaked and shivering, lying in a graveyard. There had been some concerns about the effects of exposure. Sam felt fine, and told them so, but the doctors put him to bed and said, "stay."

"Oh, by the way," he said. "I found it."

"Well bully for you, Sam, but what the hell are you talking about?"

"Haddox's grave. The family had their own private chapel, which later became the First Baptist Church of Chesterville. The church has it's own cemetery, annexed onto the old Haddox family cemetery. It's the same cemetery where I crashed and burned."

"Ah. I dunno Sammy, sounds like you didn't find it so much as you passed out on it." Dean chuckled to himself as he leaned forward to snag the newspaper Sam had been reading. "Oh look, there's a sale at Penney's."

Sam swung his legs out of the bed and gingerly tested his sprained ankle for its ability to bear weight. The Ace bandage helped considerably. He limped over to the dresser to find his clothes. Luckily Dean had been released a day earlier and had somehow managed to get to the hotel and back with a clean set.

"Actually, I was led to it."

There was a momentary silence before Dean replied, "By Ellen?"

"Yeah." Sam shook his head. "I don't know what she was doing out there, but she led me straight to it." He pulled his t-shirt on over his head, wincing as it rubbed against his bruised and battered face. "Have you talked to her or something?"

"Mmm...no. But I did talk to the EMTs. Apparently you put up a little bit of a fuss when they were trying to get you in the ambulance. You didn't want to leave her behind."

"You know Dean, the more I think about it, the more I'm sure she may have some abilities - you know, like mine? I think she wanted to help those people out there but just didn't know how." Sam sat down on the bed to pull on his jeans. He cocked his head as he paused to think. "They kept saying _"free us, free us."_ What if Haddox's spirit is somehow controlling them, using them for its own purpose?" Continuing to dress, he nodded to himself before turning to look at his brother. "I kinda hope so because if that's the case, destroying Haddox should do the trick. What do you think?"

Dean stared at him. "Aside from the fact that you're a freak of nature I'm thinking someone let you have too much coffee this morning."

"Ha. Ha. Look, I'm just anxious to wrap this up before someone else gets hurt." He frowned. "Whatever happened to the guy in the Toyota?"

"Bastard cut and run. I used him as an excuse as to why we went airborne and now he's got the cops on his tail." Shrugging, Dean sat back in the chair and tossed the paper back onto the bed. "Won't matter though. We'll be gone before they find him, if they ever do find him, and they can't really prove that he hit us. He'll just get his wrists slapped for being a jerk."

"And the car?"

"Ah," Dean grinned broadly. "They don't make 'em like they used to, Sammy. We bent the bumper all to hell and cracked the windshield - that stuff is already fixed. A new radiator is going in this afternoon and after a quick front end alignment she'll be as good as new."

Sam chuckled. "Let's just hope they don't get into the trunk."

"God forbid."

As Sam finished dressing, he noticed Dean looking at him with a sober expression. It was more than enough to give him pause. There was obviously something on his brother's mind. When Sam raised an eyebrow at him, Dean cleared his throat and let it rip.

"Sam, about Ellen..." He saw Sam's frown and added hastily, "Hear me out before you get your underwear in a knot, okay?"

Sam got his underwear in a knot just by being told not to get his underwear in a knot. Days later this would strike him as funny, until then he was a little pissed about it.

"Who said I was..." he began angrily.

"Damnit, Sam! Just shut up and listen to me."

Sam was taken back by the tone. Whatever this was, it was obviously bugging the hell out of his brother. Dean was rarely so serious. "Okay," he said quietly, "What is it?"

"I uh, was kind of wondering about Ellen too, and after they told me you'd seen her at the church, I decided to go over to the library and conduct a little research of my own."

"You didn't!" Sam stood up, forgetting his promise. "Dean! God, why did you do that? I don't need you interfering in my love life!"

"Yeah, you do, Sammy. This time you really do."

"What do you mean by that?"

"Sit down and I'll tell you."

"Dean..."

"Sit. Down." Dean met his gaze, and again Sam was put back by what he saw there.

He sat.

"Ellen's full name is Ellen Baker," Dean said softly. "And she died in 1997."

Sam flinched. Of all the things he'd thought Dean would say, that had not been one of them. Had his brother not looked so profoundly worried - about what Sam's reaction would be no doubt - Sam might not have believed him. As it was, it took some time before he could find his voice again.

"What?"

"I went to the library, Sam, and I asked if an Ellen worked there. Turns out she had, years ago, and one day in the summer of '97 the morning shift librarian came in to work to find Ellen slumped over her desk, dead."

"In the basement." Sam breathed. "Her desk was in the basement room." Something the librarian had told him came to mind. "The Historical Society. Ellen had been working on the Historical Society project. When she died was when it was scrapped. Oh my God." His eyes darted back to his brother. "The Curve, she died on Dead Man's Curve didn't she?"

"No" Dean corrected. "She was killed on the Curve. She died in the library."

Sam frowned. "Wait, I'm not following."

"That's how she was able to appear in the library _and_ out at the Curve, Sam. The night she died she had been working late. She left the library to go home to Highcliffe, where she was living at the time. They think she forgot something 'cause she turned around and came back. On the way back, she lost control of her car on the Curve. The police came, and instead of going to the hospital to be checked out, she asked them to take her to the library. She figured she could sleep there and get a ride home with someone in the morning."

"But she...died? How?"

Dean leaned forward, resting his good elbow across his knees. "Ruptured spleen," he said. "Probably thought she'd just gotten banged up a little bit in the accident. She didn't realize she was slowly bleeding to death. She started dying at the Curve. She finished at the library."

Sam let his breath out in a long sigh. He slowly shook his head back and forth as he stared at the bare wall. "I spent hours alone with her, Dean. I touched her." His voice softened. "I kissed her..."

"You did more than that to her, unless you were lying." The smart ass Dean paused to show himself. "I can't believe you doinked a ghost."

"God..." Sam buried his face in his hands. "Don't remind me."

"Crappily too, didn't you say?"

"Dean..."

"Sorry." Dean sobered again. "Look, Sammy, you know how these things can be. How could you have known? Especially if she didn't want you to."

"But why me? What does she want from me?" Sam paused, frowning. "It's not me," he said, standing abruptly. "It's _him_."

"Him? Him who? Sam!" Dean hastily rose to follow him as he began hobbling toward the door. "Where are you going?"

"To the library."

"What? No, strike that - how? You gonna walk there on a bum ankle?"

"Dean, I have to go. I have to talk to her again."

"Come on, Sam. Don't do this to yourself...

"Dean. I have to."

They stared at each other. Sam put all he had into making his expression one of pleading desperation. After a moment Dean snorted in resignation, and pushed past him into the hallway. "Come on. I'll drive you."

"Drive? Drive what?" Sam demanded. "Dean, wait!"

Dean shot him a broad grin as he walked backward down the hospital corridor toward the exit. "I've got a rental," he explained and added reverently: "It has air."


	8. Connect the Dots

**PART EIGHT: Connect the Dots**

Sam sat down at the desk in the basement. Everything was covered in a layer of dust, just as if he had never been down there before. His mind was still a mixed up muddle from what Dean had told him about Ellen. He still couldn't believe she hadn't been real.

He stared down at his fingertips. Closing his eyes he could remember the softness of her skin, the scent of her perfume, and the way her body felt pressed tightly against his own. He remembered...

Jess had felt the same way. Her perfume had been similar to what Ellen had worn, and God, their bodies had fit together so perfectly just like it had been with Jessica. Had his experience with Ellen actually been nothing more than a revival of vivid memories, memories of Jessica? Just how much of it had been real? His stomach churned queasily as he ran his fingers through his hair and groaned.

"Jesus, I screwed a ghost."

Ellen laughed at him.

Sam opened his eyes and she was there, perched on the edge of the desk. He resisted the temptation to cringe away from her. It would be stupid at this point. If she'd wanted to hurt him she could have done so long before.

His heart ached for _her_, not himself. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I didn't want to scare you."

"I'm not scared of ghosts."

"I know that now." She smiled again, but as she met his gaze, her expression sobered. "Will it work, Sam? If you burn Haddox will it free them from his curse?"

Sam nodded. "I think so."

They sat in silence for a moment, gazing into each other's eyes. For what purpose, Sam could not fathom, but he still perceived the odd connection he'd felt between them during previous encounters. He guessed he'd thought it would go away now that he knew the truth. It hadn't. Maybe it wouldn't. She was a spirit. He saw spirits. Subconsciously he must have known what she was all along.

"You told me your fiance was killed on the Curve." Sam said finally.

"Yeah." Ellen's voice turned wistful. "The year before I..." She stopped, still unwilling to talk to him about it. Shaking her head, she continued. "He's there, waiting for me, Sam. But as long as he's tied to the Curve I can't be with him. The others, they don't have the freedom I do." Reaching out a hand, she gently brushed the hair out of his eyes. Her smile was sad. "You reminded me of him."

"Did you know...about me being clairvoyant?"

"I sensed it I think. I sensed something in you. I knew you could help me."

"And I will," Sam replied gently. " 'cause I know what it's like to miss someone like that, Ellen. Sometimes..." He paused as his voice caught and turned rough. "Sometimes I can see Jessica's spirit. Out of the corner of my eye I catch just a fleeting glimpse, but no matter how hard I try, I can never get near her. I can't communicate with her like I can with others - like you - and I don't know why."

Ellen put a hand to his cheek. "One day, Sam. One day you'll have all the answers you need."

Sam rose to his feet with a sigh. "I wish I had that confidence, Ellen." He crossed around to the front of the desk. She stood up to meet him. "Because I need those answers. I can't keep going on like this."

She didn't reply. It was time for him to go, but he had one last gift to give her. "Ellen," he whispered, and slipping a hand beneath her chin he bent down to kiss her.

Her lips were warm.

When he pulled away she was gone. The room was empty and silent, tomb-like. Sam sighed deeply, jammed his hands in the pockets of his jeans, and limped back up the stairs, but he paused halfway as a thought occurred to him.

"Hey, Ellen," he called quietly. "Is there any way you could..."

She answered immediately, her voice sounding as if she were standing right next to him. He even thought he felt her breath on his cheek as she made her reply.

_"I'll tell her you miss her, Sam, and that you love her."_

"Ellen wait, there's something else..."

_"What is it?"_

Sam swallowed hard. "Tell her," he said roughly. "That I'm sorry."

* * *

Dean was lounging in the rental car in front of the library thoroughly enjoying both the stereo system and the air conditioner. Even with all the windows rolled up Sam could hear the muffled whine of a guitar and the pulse pounding beat of AC/DC's _Back In Black. _Dean saw him coming and grinned out at him happily from behind a pair of dark sunglasses.

The car, as Sam had noted earlier, was a 2006 Chevy Impala.

In black.

He opened the door and a blast of music and cold air rushed out at him. Several library patrons paused on their way in the door to stare at them disapprovingly. Sam hastily climbed into the car and shut the door. He also reached over to turn off the radio.

"Hey!"

Sam ignored the protest. "Maybe I should drive," he said.

"Why?"

"You've only got one hand, Dean."

"Hmm, yeah, like this thing doesn't have power steering and you don't have a sprained right ankle. Sit down, shut up, and put on your seatbelt."

"We have seatbelts?"

"Novel concept, isn't it?" Dean started the car - twice. The engine screamed in protest. "Crap!" He shook his head. "Still can't get used to how quiet the damn thing is."

"It is very quiet. Maybe you should think about trading the old gal in for a new one."

"Say that again and I'll hurt you." Dean glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. "You okay? Did she show up?"

"Yeah."

"Make your peace?"

Sam nodded. He had made his peace in more ways than one.

_I'm sorry Jess, I'm so sorry you had to get mixed up with me._

"Yeah, I think so."

"Did you do her again?"

"No!" Sam shot his his chuckling brother a nasty look. "I swear to God, Dean, if you ever say anything about that to anyone, especially _Dad_, I will kill you. Slowly. And take pictures. AND," he added menacingly. "I'll post them on the Internet."

Dean pulled the car away from the curb and goosed it into a speed that was probably illegal. "Ectoplasmic sex" he laughed. "That's got to be one for the record books."

"Shut up."

"Admit it Sam, you wanted to do her again, right?"

"Dean..." Sam said warningly. "Shut. Up."

His brother continued to chuckle, clearly unable to contain his amusement, but he changed the subject - sort of.

"By the way, Sam, speaking of - _that_ - I took a page from your playbook the other night."

"Huh? What are you talking about?"

"Public sex," Dean grinned. "I.C.U. nurses station." The grin broadened. "Played doctor with the lovely nurse Roseanne. Mmm, mmm, mmm. You're right Sammy, that's a lot of fun."

"Oh, my God, I've created a monster." Sam flung his head back against the headrest with a groan. After a minute he sat up again and began playing with the electric powered seating. Cool. He adjusted it to his liking and sat back, quite comfortable. "Where are we going anyway? Don't we have a body to dig up and torch?"

"Ye-up. But I figure neither of us is going to be able to do much digging all banged up like we are."

"Yeah? So?"

"So," Dean said lightly. "We're going to go see a man about a back-hoe."


	9. Epilogue: On the Road Again

**EPILOGUE: On the Road Again**

A long, black car sat parked along the edge of a narrow road near the town of Chesterville, somewhere in rural Indiana. She sat there unmoving, her headlights dark, her engine idling steadily. Like a cat perched in a window sill she sat waiting, purring.

The sky above was overcast, blanketing everything with a uniform shade of midnight blue. There was no moon, and no stars could be seen. Far, far on a distant horizon, lightning flickered.

Just after midnight everything changed.

One after another, milky white spheres danced their way toward the center of the road. Some came from within the tall, rustling stalks of corn lining the road to the east. Others wove their way through the thick copse of trees darkening the western side of the road. There were dozens of them and they all gathered at the center of the highway, twirling around each other as if they were dancers performing a reel.

The vortex of shimmering globes gradually rose higher and higher into the sky above, and one by one, just as they had arrived, they began to go. High above the Earth, just below the blanketing clouds, each orb quietly, uneventfully, dissolved into the mist.

At precisely fifteen minutes after the first danced its way onto the road, the last orb found its freedom. The road was empty, save for the slim figure of a young woman bathed in an ethereal light. She turned her head toward the idling vehicle and nodded. Her smile was broad as she raised her arms to the sky, tears of joy glistened upon her cheeks.Like the orbs, she began to rise toward the heavens, and ultimately, she too disappeared.

The black car's engine growled. Her headlights came on, illuminating the darkness. She almost seemed to stretch as her tires crunched over the gravel berm and found blacktop again. She traveled past the place where the orbs had gathered, past the woods and the tall stalks of corn, quickly gaining speed. Sure footed and agile she took one last curve...

And vanished into the night.


End file.
